


What Do You Remember?

by whirlybirb



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, Wash needs a FUCKING HUG
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 04:52:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17760131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whirlybirb/pseuds/whirlybirb
Summary: Agent Washington takes a tumble through memory lane.





	What Do You Remember?

**Author's Note:**

> -mature only cause there's a light scene with some implied sexy times (im so sorry mainewash shippers) and talk of blood  
> -sorry for the weird linear timeline stuff, i just think that bc of epsilon wash has a fucking hard time with everything and drifts off a lot. his memories blend into hallucinations blend into delusions

Someone sits in front of you, you don't remember them. You remember so much but their face escapes your grasp, it should trouble you. Their glasses reflect the fluorescent lights overhead, and you can’t see their eyes. You try to push down the feeling that this person is a threat, that you need to _go_ and _leave_.

“What do you remember?” they ask. Their voice is toneless and it spills down your spine like cold water. You shiver involuntarily.

Their suit is immaculate, not a speck of muck or grime on them- _mud under your boots, it makes trekking through the wilderness harder, you can’t get any good traction_ \- you almost resent them.

They sit patiently, their spine is straight compared to your almost slouch. The desk in front of them is neat and tidy- _the room you two shared was never clean, you would leave clothes all over the floor and he would stare pointedly until you picked up your shit_ \- everything is in perfect alignment.

Their pens and folders are parallel to each other, not a single paper is out of place. The uniformity- _your drill sergeant yelling at you in front of your company for your boots being a few inches off_ \- is almost comforting.

You straighten up in your seat, prepared to look them in the eye for the first time this session, except you can’t. There’s a spot on the floor and suddenly you’re back on the _Mother of Invention,_ in the rec room. 

York just shouted out a cursed and is cradling his slowly reddening hand to his chest. His fingers twitch with residual nerves as the scalding hot liquid drips onto the floor. Delta is there too, over his left shoulder as always, chastising him with probability. Something about how if he had waited one point five minutes before picking up the mug of coffee, he wouldn't have suffered from a first degree burn. There’s going to be a spot, you think. As if this place needed another mystery stain. Sigh and grab some paper towels, hope that he didn’t wake up South who’s sleeping on the couch. An angry South Dakota is bad but an angry  _and_ sleep deprived South Dakota is infinitely worse. 

You hear his voice ring through your head even though it’s been years and you buried him like you buried everyone else.

_“Always cleaning up after us huh? Gotta be careful or you’ll end up exactly like North-”_

The Counselor, Aiden Price, your stand-in uncle, sits in front of you. His hands are folded in front of him now, and he still has that patient look on his face. You remember him and you want to punch him.

You remember how you were reassigned after the crash, after Epsilon, after you woke up screaming for your wife-mother. You remember how it was his signature at the bottom of the paper that declared you unfit for duty. You remember how his questions tore at your feelings and his false sympathy grated on your nerves. You remember-

You inhale deeply and run your fingers through your hair- _her fingers trailing through your unruly curls, trying to tame them for once in your life, she wants you to look at least a little put together for your first grade photo_ \- pushing back your overgrown bangs.

“I-” you start, then stop. Pause. Start to breathe again because that’s important.

He's still waiting for an answer, but you’re not sure if you want to give it to him. Close your eyes. Focus on the seat below you. The rough texture under your fingers that you’ve been unconsciously picking at for the past thirty five minutes- _thirty seven minutes, that’s how long it takes to get to the hospital, your daughter is about to be born-_ is riddled with holes. Your father always used to say that idle hands are the Devil's workshop. The all familiar feeling of rage curls in your stomach. If only he took his own advice to heart.

You feel the need to apologize to the Counselor but the look on his face- _his eyes gaze into yours and you just know, he loves you, and you love him, who needs words when you have his eyes that are as open as any book_ \- tells you that it doesn’t matter anyway.

 

Here’s what you remember.

 

You're in a hotel room and he's over you. It's the first time in months that you two were granted shore leave together and you planned on enjoying the uninterrupted time. You were going to go swimming- although you'll need to teach him how, the SPARTAN program apparently didn't deem that attribute important when they were training him to be a killing machine- and then get some food at the local restaurant. Maybe a bonfire later in the night if you can track down Connie. Unfortunately, it had started raining right after you stepped off the pelican. You wanted to scream at the world at large but Maine put his hand on your shoulder and gestured to the nearest hotel.

The weather had definitely put a damper on your plans but it doesn't matter now. Nothing matters. You're here and he's here and you're both _alive_. Painfully so but still, stubbornly, alive. The local forecaster had said that there was going to be some cloud cover tonight and yet the moon shines through your open windows. It bathes the room in a soft light, outlines his scarred form and puts silvery highlights in your hair. Light or no, you can feel the weight of his gaze.

You lean up, propped on your elbows, and kiss him gently. His lips are soft and taste slightly of some sweet fruit. Neither of you make a noise and the silence is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard.

 

You’re in the locker room and Florida just came up and gave you a friendly pat on the back while you were changing into your civvies for the night. The placement of his hand is careful and his pat is light, just high enough that it won’t disturb your still healing ribs and with enough weight for you to feel it through your shirt. You turn and the smile that adorns his face is kind, you smile back. His eyes are soft around the edges, something you wouldn't expect if you only knew him at a surface level but you don't. You understand him and he understands you.

It's hard- watching all your friends scratch and claw at each other for top marks- and Florida gets it. You don't know why and you don't ask but a quiet “thank you” leaves your lips. A warm sense of comfort washes over you as he disappears down the hall. Even though you're all going through a rough patch, this is your family and they love you. They support you. They care about you.

 

Your sister takes your hand in hers, her hair is a fiery red now instead of the dirty blonde you’ve seen since birth and her hands are wrapped in boxers tape. She's talking to you, her voice is hard even if it's hitching a little. She's trying to explain why, as if you needed to hear it. You don't. You saw the way dad looked at you two after mom died, you saw the heaviness of his gaze and the red rings around his eyes.   
  
"The red is really-" you pause and think.

Different. Bold. Not hers. Maybe dad will stop seeing mom in her. Maybe he'll really look at her.

"Cool."

She nods and you know she understands. She doesn't continue, only gets up and walks out of the room you used to share. Carolina's changed so much lately but you're comforted in the fact that she still gets your silences. You sit and think.

Her eyes are the same, she can’t change that. Her hair, her name and her attitude are all things she has under her control but her eyes are your eyes are your father's eyes. You know she hates the color but you can’t help but find comfort in it. No matter how much the two of you change, you will always be able to find her in you. You will always carry a part of her wherever you go. 

 

You’re still strapped to the medical cot you woke up on, albeit you're on your side now. One of the on duty medics had hastily tied the safety belts over your prone form when the alarms had gone off, before the explosions and the crash. You don't doubt that you're alive because of their efforts and you try to not feel disappointed because of that. The shockwave hit just as they finished, it blew them back a good ten feet and now their crumpled form is steadily leaking blood over the cracked linoleum. It’s almost too easy for you to look away. Everything’s too easy nowadays. The cognitive disconnect is so strong. Even Epsilon's voice, which was once so loud it filled your head and spilled his words from your mouth, is quiet and distant.

 

“Agent Washington.” Someone’s calling your name. His voice is unfamiliar and foreign. You elect to ignore it.

 

“Wash!”

Now that’s someone you know. You'd know her voice almost anywhere.

You look around and there she is. Her hair is whipping around in the wind, the outrageous undercut finally coming back to bite her in the ass. The snow and blood in your eyes is making it hard to see her face but you can still recognize her. She is your best friend after all. You jog towards her, bloody knife in hand, and tilt your head down at her.

“We need to get out of here,” Connie has to raise her voice to be heard over the wind.

“You need to go!”

Your eyebrows scrunch together in confusion. Go? What is she talking about? You can’t just leave your... partner? Or was it your team? Who's on your team anyway? Obviously Connie but... You can't remember who else. You can't remember where you are. You look around and try to figure out what's going on but the landscape is barren and cold. There's white, more white, a shade of grey and red. So much red. It's welling up between your boots.

You open your mouth to question what's going on, because Connie always knows what's going on, but before you get the chance to utter a syllable she’s being yanked away from you by an unseen force.

You feel as though someone just yanked the floor out from under you. You're not falling yet but your stomach is in your throat and you're weightless in the way you know that there's going to be a painful ending soon. The cold is seeping in.

 

You come back in a snap. The Counselor's face is the same, albeit one corner of his mouth is slightly turned down. A full hour has passed.

You need to stop drifting.


End file.
